Thus Always To Tyrants
by clannead
Summary: After years of perfecting their plot to bring down WICKD, a small lone squadron of the Right Arm is sent in to rescue the inhabitants of the Maze. Against the recommendations of Vince and others, an eager young lieutenant is put in command of this task force. Newt/OC. Drastically AU.
1. prologue: before

The labyrinth rises up before us, just as real as we remember. Looming. Terrifying. Some of the men behind me shrink back in alarm, overwhelmed at once by the power and enormity of the thing. They put _kids _in there. Kids our age, maybe younger.

The general consensus seems to be the same. They trade bits of description behind me - some more colorful than others - and one overly enthusiastic cry emerges from the cluster of murmurs and guarded hums.

"Fuck's sake, it's _massive_."

I whip my head around and search out the idiot that raised his voice. "Shut your fucking trap, boot, or I'll shovel it full of sand."

A couple of the older guys snicker amongst themselves. The kid goes quiet and adjusts his shoulders as if to evenly distribute the weight of his own shame.

Satisfied with the ranks shuffled back into order, I turn to face the Maze once again. My feet burrow into scorched pliant earth. It's still warm, full of sun beam, and I try to remember the last time I felt the sun on my face. It burns the second it touches you. Makes your skin bubble and the blood froth in your veins. The most we see of daylight are the first ragged gray edges of dawn just before it breaks on the horizon.

Somewhere, in the back of my head, I realize I've drifted off. I pull myself back into my own body and shake what's left of the hazy images out of my head. It's dangerous to lose focus. One always taught me to look sharp, stay in the moment, and never, ever let your guard down. Most important, that one. All you have shielding you from the rest of the world is vigilance and a loaded weapon.

I haven't seen One in weeks. He's been moving in and out of the ranks, gathering information and setting plans in motion.

Our job has been to bolster morale. And wait.

It feels like we've been waiting for years. Collecting manpower, weapons, drawing up maps and strategies we'd composed from air raids, scoping out the perimeter, direct infiltration into WICKD itself. They never knew we were coming. We melted into the background of their scheme, wearing their starch-white conformity like a disguise. Now that we had a fair idea of just how big this place was, what to expect, we were ready to make our move.

The Trials end now.

Under cover of darkness, our meager forces assemble quickly and without sound. First has set the number somehwere between a hundred and one thirty five. Sand shifts beneath their slim, leather booted feet and echoes through the gauzy hush. Many have switched off their safeties and tied black cloth masks over their faces in order to avoid being identified on camera. Once we're inside, we face unseen enemies as well as those monstrosities the Gladers call Grievers– cameras, booby traps, the list goes on for ages. But we have one clear objective to guide us through the muddle of chaos and deadly peril –reach the epicenter, a grassy opening of land where the subjects live which they call the Glade.

One has split us into four different squadrons, each equipped with canteens, rations, semi-automatic weapons and one skilled, _experienced _commandment. Orders are simple – take out cameras. Find the Glade. Avoid Grievers. And most importantly - save as many boys as we can.

I've been put in charge of Four, no surprise there. Twelve to each squad. We've been awaiting orders for the last hour, the most arduous sixty minutes we've suffered through since our run-in with particularly aggresivve Cranks at the Palace. Wordlessly, I sign to the men to switch to full magazines, toggle their safeties off, and be ready to haul ass as soon as our guys from WICKD arrive with the map.

"Torches off," I add as an afterthought. "We're on light discipline until we get inside."

If we're fortunate, we'll have three hours to find the epicenter and gather the subjects. WICKD will not remain blind for long. They are always watching.

We wait restlessly. When you're used to always moving, always being on the tip of your toes, it feels strange, almost unnatural to stand in one place for too long. Waiting is the hard part. We've been conditioned to push as hard as we can through the worst imaginable scenario. Blistering heat. Biting cold. Insurmountable obstacles, in which the chances of survival are slim to none. We're used to the scorching heat of battle that leaves blisters on our feet and in between our fingers. It's what we do.

Standing around, aimless, letting the exhaustion and hunger and nerves catch up to you and set an ache deep in your bones…it's the last thing we remember how to do.

One waves me, Two, and Three over without ceremony. I shoulder the weapon hanging like a dead weight in my hands and signal to my second in command. He returns the gesture – confirmation that he's received my command - and I take off across the length of sand lying gray beneath the patchy sky. The moon is missing tonight, hidden behind a wall of clouds crowding together on the western horizon. These are ideal conditions, the kind we'd hoped for during the first phases of organization. It's a comforting thought, but not enough to quell the ballooning panic in my stomach.

A group of men are hovering in a small, tight circle, two of them pointing and gesturing enthusiastically at a map. By the time I reach them, I can discern their whispers that seem to blare through the empty desert –

"Sections one, three, and five are chalk full of 'em. These areas seem to be where the things are let loose so have your men avoid them as best they can."

One eyes the map closely. On first glance, it looks like he's somewhere else, his expression absent and sagging with exhaustion at its edges. Only his infamously sharp gaze remains intact. "What are they?"

"We don't know. They're man-made. Evil bastards. Semi-automatic might not be enough to take them down. Launchers might."

"We don't have launchers. All we got is semi's. They'll make do."

One turns his head to look at me, the lines carved around his mouth deepening in the gloom. "Four, your squad is leading the assault. As soon as we infiltrate the outer perimeter, we're sending you in - the more men we can spare, the better, so don't make me send in First or Second after you.

The fastest way through looks to be sections five and seven. Avoid one, three, and five at all costs. We're closest to seven – goes straight through to the entrance to the Glade if you don't stray from the path. Radio in your position every half hour, on the dot, and report any sightings of these – things. Main objective is to get those kids out of there. WICKD will have found us out before long. We've gotta move fast."

"Yes, sir," I reply. "These things, sir - "

"Like I told you, Four. Don't engage. Take it down with one shot if you can. Aim for the head, it's the only component of the bastard that's organic. Remember the objective. We go live in ten. Stay sharp."

"Yes, sir."

He salutes me with stern precision, seemingly untouched by the excitement of the mission that has seemed to infect the others. I'm not altogether surprised. One has been doing this for as long as I can remember.

Nervously, I return it, taking in a shaky breath to steel my nerves.

"Good luck, Four." He offers me an affectionate wink. "You'll need it."

I take long strides on the way back to my squadron. They all wait expectantly – necks craned, chins crooked upward, standing on the tips of their toes as if they're ready to bolt. I nod curtly at my number two. He receives it with a gesture of understanding as before and turns around, whispering orders to the others.

Shouts issue from the man-made opening at the partition. We've made it in.

I flick the safety off and join my men – they eagerly follow behind in calm, orderly fashion…

Even as we knowingly walk into the hands of death itself.


	2. one: infiltrate

AN: I read your guys' reviews (thank you, by the way, so much for the approval and the support! :D) and realized you're right...Four was the name of the guy from Divergent! I never read the books, just saw the movie, and I was sick when I saw it so the name's outside of Tris' barely registered. But, yeah, you'll find out why she's called Four later. It's not an official title. She's got a real name too. :)

Also, **I apologize in advance if the profanity in this story offends you, but it will be rather strong. So beware!**

Anyway, thank you again so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think :)

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They all push inside, clamoring and shoving each other as they reach solid ground. Though enormous in diameter, the passageways that make up the Maze itself are relatively narrow, leaving little space for elbow room. The empty area around us fills up quickly with big black boots and broad shoulders. It brims over, a good indication that a shouting match is coming on.

"Spread out, would you? You're making me claustrophobic!" I almost have to speak aloud to be heard above the din. "Sawyer, Reed – set up a perimeter, make sure to search for cameras. Keep an eye out for those things, yeah?"

Sighing, I turn to our radioman, Hawkins. His spectacles flash silver in a patch of moonlight as he shuffles awkwardly to my side.

"Anything I can do, ma'am?"

"Yeah," I tell him, snorting a bit. "Don't call me ma'am. In the meantime, stick around…I don't want you caught up in too much action. You're a shitty shot, not to mention important."

He fingers the hems of his faded dungarees that have gone stiff with blood and salt. After a minute of loitering, he moves back toward the heart of the commotion, maybe hoping to find a way to help somehow.

With most of the boys already inside, there's not much I can do except get to know my surroundings. The walls are just as tall and grim as they look on the outside, though their power seems omnipresent now that there's no escaping them in here. They glower down at me through the thickest, heaviest darkness I've ever felt in my life. The consistency feels like ink, the kind we use for correspondence reports between factions – pooling like black silk against the grains in the paper. But that kind of black is comforting, an everyday color we're familiar with and know inside and out.

This darkness is foreboding. Strange. Monsters hide behind its suffocating pall, and some worse than those Grievers that the kids in the Glade only talk about in hushed, anxious whispers. Hopelessness. Fear. Unseen eyes that watch us even now, calculating our next move. Dread floods my chest and makes the breath inside stick – I can fight a soldier, a monster, something I can lay my hands on, even if my close range combat skills aren't up to par…

But this – this is a kind of enemy I'm not used to fighting. One, maybe – he's floated up through the ranks a couple times before being demoted for 'outbreaks'.

The thought crosses my mind, but I shove it hastily away, blinking away the memory of it entirely.

_You're in over your head._

Keep busy. Stay sharp. I glance over my shoulder – the last man is crawling through the manhole. He makes it in, dusts the wrinkles out of his dungarees, and claps the guy at his side on the shoulder. A sort of longing stirs as I watch them move the granite piece back into its place, but it disappears almost as soon as it comes.

"Fall in, weapons at the ready, be prepared to take a shot that could mean your life. Do not put your rifle down unless you have to. We move quickly and without sound. Light discpline. And if I hear anything over the sound of a manly whisper, I will come to you personally and knock your shit into the ground with the appropriate force and aforementioned silence. Everyone clear on that?"

A round of 'yes, m'am,'s make their way through the crowd of men.

"Lovely." I shrug the bulky M4 almost mechanically from my shoulder, having done it a thousand times in my short years. "Here we go, boys. Let's show One we can be just as gung-ho as the rest."

An off-imitation of a bird call issues from the far end of the passage. Lindon waves me over desperately once I've recognized the signal. I push through the pack of taller, much sturdier men and break into a jog as soon as I break free from the rest. Sawyer – what little I can see of him, mostly what I can hear – seems jumpy. He's breathing hard, loud enough to attract the nearest monster if it happens to be passing by.

"What? You hear something?"

"No…that's just it. We can't hear a damn thing."

"I'm sorry, what? How is that cause for concern?"

Reed calmly interjects. "While you guys were comin' in, the walls out there seemed to creak, shift, move a little. We heard stuff. Now…it's gone absolutely fuckin' quiet. Not a peep."

"They know," Sawyer hisses at me, his breath hot and sour against my face. "They know we're here!"

"We don't know that. It could just be going through a quiet phase - "

"Fuck that, lieutenant, we radio in that we're falling back and we get the hell outta here!"

I grab Sawyer by the collar, yanking him down to my level. "Listen, Sawyer…you gotta shape the fuck up, man. It's okay. I know. I'm scared too. We're all scared. But you have to keep your head on straight. Follow orders, do what exactly what you've done a thousand times before, and we'll all be fine."

"Admit it, lieutenant." His voice catches. "You're out of your league here. They sent us cause we're expendable…this is a suicide mission and you fucking know it."

"Sawyer, look at me…c'mon. Look."

I harden my grip, and his fleshy cheek bulges out between my fingers. This close, even in the dark, I can see the hysteria swelling up behind his eyes. "You don't trust me? After everything we've been through together? Crank Palace? That shit assault in Detroit? Come on. You know me better than that. It's just the nerves getting to you. If you just calm down - take deep breaths good, that's good…nothing's going to hurt you. Promise."

He closes his eyes, nods, and rests his head against mine for a moment to collect himself and what's left of his dignity. I let go of him and he straightens his posture, resuming his own proud, brave façade as if it'd never even fallen in the first place.

"You okay?"

He shrugs, huge shoulders rolling awkwardly. "Yeah…yeah I think so. Just. It's so damn quiet and dark…I think we spotted a camera or somethin' down there in six or five or whatever, but…we couldn't tell."

Reed, overcoming his own discomfort with the whole situation, flexes and stretches out his hand to pat Sawyer's back. "'S okay, man. Four's got us covered."

"Yeah…" He laughs a little, running his gloved hand over the baby hairs at the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know."

"We'll radio in and move out," I tell them both. "You guys stay put. Reed, keep him cool."

He nods in reply, peering at his friend in order to effectively gauge his mood.

It's hard to stay calm after an outburst like that. Once the panic starts, it spreads quickly, like a virus – a dangerous infection. And it's spread to me. It leans heavily on the shoulders, ties knots in the back of your neck. Your pulse races. You start to sweat and it turns cold no sooner does it hit the muggy breathless air. I bury my free hand in the threadbare cloth of my pants.

_Stay sharp._

_Keep your head._

_Stay_

_Sharp._

Then the shit hits the fan.

Alarms blare overhead. My first instinct is to cover my ears to protect them from the blast but then the lights burst to life and the glare is just as painful. Blinded and deaf, all I've got left is my hands. I put them out like feelers and struggle to scream orders over the sirens. Vaguely, in the background, I can hear them – yelling to each other, trying to find hands or arms or faces just like I am. It's complete chaos.

They've found us. We're surrounded.

My hands find purchase on fabric but it catches and tears on the callus in my fingers. I find skin instead, then an arm, and grab onto it with all my strength, whipping the attached body around to face me. It's Gordon. His face flushes as heat and blood clambers to the surface, eyes nearly all white. Even as I hold onto him he's still searching for means of escape – just like a cornered animal. He shoves me away, the force throwing me to the ground. I grapple for ankles hiding behind the tattered green hems, but he's already loose before I can recover him.

I pull myself to my feet, dodging arms, hands, and bodies – everything that's coming toward me, all much bigger than my own. Dust turns to mud on my tongue. I still can't see much, but my eyes have adjusted slightly to the glare of the artificial lights flickering overhead. It registers dully, an undercurrent running through the resounding boom of utter bedlam - I hear a radio nearby. One's voice is on it, gravelly and warped as it grinds through the transistor.

"Hawkins! Where are you!?"

"Lieutenant, is that you?!"

"It's me! Hawkins, follow my voice! Can you hear me?!"

"Lieutenant! One is pulling back our squadron!" Hawkins finally breaks through the clamor. "The mission has been compromised!"

"Yeah, no shit!" I reply. "I'm going in anyway! This is _my_ mission and I'm seeing it through!"

"You can't just go in there alone - "

"Then come with me!"

He doesn't answer, and I can only imagine the dumb look on his face.

"Coming or going, I'm not turning back! You either come with me or you leave now, no doubt they'll be here soon!"

"I can't leave you…"He pauses for just a beat, no doubt wrestling down his own sense of self-preservation in the name of glory and honor."…I guess I'm going too!"

Meanwhile, One is breaking blood vessels in his brain trying to get a response in the midst of the mass evacuation. I take Hawkins' hand and cart him along behind me, weaving through bodies and dust to find the other end of the passage – going against the current the men around me seem to create.

One's vehement bawling starts to register over the wail of the sirens.

"FALL BACK, I REPEAT FALL BACK. FOURTH LIEUTENANT AND SQUADRON, THE MISSION HAS BEEN TERMINATED, RETREAT TO BASE - "

The ground rumbles, tremors running through the outer faces of the walls. We lose our footing and I nearly stumble, somehow catching myself at the last moment before I fall. Hawkins hits the deck, crouching at the base of the stone barrier, and runs the palm of his brown filthy hand over the slab of concrete. "What the hell was that?" He asks.

"Hell if I know," I reply, searching the dispersing crowd for Vicks and Lindon. They were probably two of the first to haul ass to the exit. "They're probably sending in reinforcements!"

"You don't seem too worried!"

"Honestly, what's the worst they can do?"

The shaking increases until the ground begins to thrash underneath. Cracks split through the walls. It's useless to try and hang onto much of anything but the man next to you.

"I don't know, but that looks pretty damn bad!" Hawkins points toward the sky.

I look up and immediately beat down the urge to run in the opposite direction screaming.

A huge, spider-like creature traverses the length of the upper wall. Its long spindled legs pierce through the concrete and send it crumbling to the ground below, sharp as ax-picks. A bloodcurdling scream emerges from the depths of its gaping mouth. Thick gobs of yellow saliva plaster the walls, our clothes, glisten in the cracks running through the ground as it gnashes its jaws in anticipation. The smell of rot follows after, perforating the dust and the clarity of adrenaline. Only the head seems made out of skin, just like One said. But I've never seen another head like it – bulbous, almost shapeless, the flat black eyes embedded in brown wrinkled flesh.

Instinct kicks in as more of them flood the corridors. I reach behind me, groping for the rifle that's supposed to be secured at my back, but in the commotion I'd dropped it and never realized until now.

"Hawkins, give it to me! Your rifle!"

He hands it off without question. I flick off the safety just as the _thing _has us in its sights and charges, the war cry nearly deafening. I fire off two shots, but it barely puts a dent in the hard outer shell of the head. I aim for the shadow just between the eyes, give up a prayer to whatever god is listening, and fire.

It stops short, the eyes going dead as if a light went out behind them. The legs tangle together and go limp. I pull Hawkins out of the way before he's crushed beneath its massive corpse and it goes down hard.

"Move, you idiot!"

"Lieutenant, give it back!" He struggles to find purchase on the carbine in my hands, slippery now with blood, sweat, and calcified bits of saliva. "I'll take down these two while you find yours!"

"You're a terrible shot, Hawkins!"

"I'm trying to save your ass – hurry up before you get us both killed!"

Every single man that came in with me is gone. It's just me and Hawkins now, lone warriors against an impossible horde of monsters. Somewhere, maybe an echo lodged between reality and hope, I know we're not going to make it, him and I. We can fight until our skin cracks and our bodies break and we pollute the splintered concrete with our own martyred blood. It won't make a difference.

But I've never known how to surrender – it's not in our nature, even bunched up squares like Hawkins who can barely hold a rifle without shooting himself in the foot. It's ingrained in us. It molds to our skin and we wear it like an armor that fire and steel couldn't cut from us.

We have to go on. To the death.

To whatever end.

I fall to my knees, rifle just out of arm's length. The earth crackles beneath my shins and shivers in fear. Out of my peripheral vision, I see one slink behind me, rearing up onto its back legs as it spots my stooping figure below, just an ant under its heel. I glance again at the carbine lying uselessly in the dust out of my reach.

It descends just as I seize upon the open air separating me from my only chance of survival.

My hand misses, only an inch away from its target. I'm lifted up into its clutches, only half aware that the high girlish screams piercing the air around me are my own, and come face to face with the monster itself. Its beady, merciless eyes zero in on me, sizing me up, as if it had never seen my equal. It's only a split second of reprieve before the barbed tail rises up from behind the crown of its hideous skull, poised to strike. I set my quaking hands to grope for the one and only grenade I have on me.

It launches its attack and the barb narrowly misses my head. Not a second too soon, I ducked my head to the side, cowering behind the cage of my own shielding arms. Apparently, I had been a secondtoo late – the stinger had caught me on its way down, splitting open my cheek on its brutally jagged edge. A tearing sensation and the smell of hot, fresh blood salts the dust-peppered air. I barely registered the pain, adrenaline blotting out every one of my senses until all that's left is my ability to think and the will to act.

My fingers close around the basic outline of the grenade and I yank the spherical object from its pocket. The creature rallies itself, the stinger retreating to an attack position once more.

In the last moment before the stinger finds its mark, I lurch forward and lodge the grenade between its teeth - letting the pin fall from my hands.

For a second, the world seems to stop turning, a gear sticking – its heart skips a beat. Then the explosion hits and the shock sends me flying, chunks of flesh and charred shrapnel raining down with me. I nearly – not quite, but just nearly - regret my decision to blow up the thing as I plummet from a thirty-five foot drop straight to solid earth. Even if it kills me when I hit the ground, I will have gone out fighting, and the thought fills me with a numbing sense of peace. It feels like a shot of morphine and I lean into it, curling up in the layers of its reassuring shroud.

Just before I reach concrete, I brace myself for the fallout. But I can't bite back the scream of agony. All the air left in my lungs gusts out of me in one violent crushing blow as the bones in my arm give a sickening crack. Nausea hits me in waves, slowly receding until they fade out altogether. I'm left lying on the ground, barely registering Hawkins' voice as he discovers me sprawled out next to what's left of my enemy. His face is blurry and haloed in searing white light. I try to remember him, anything about him, but can't seem to latch onto anything safe and genuine – only that he's collecting my limbs together, handling with care the one that's hot and pulsating in the sleeve of my shirt, and now he's lifting me up into his arms. My head lolls back into the crevice of his shoulder…

And I stop trying to remember altogether.

_"Lieutenant!"_


	3. two: meeting in the maze

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Light filters through my sticky lashes, mottled green and gray. All the breath seems to slam back into my lungs at once with the force of a blow to the gut. It's like I've been holding it for too long, caging it inside, but now the dam is broken. It leaves me limp and weak in its wake.

My fingertips drag shakily along cracks and pits in the ground, searching for something to grab onto. I still can't see a thing through the muddy haze shielding my eyes, but even through the blindness, I find a sturdy corner and bring myself to a sitting position. The first thing that hits me is the pain in my head. Instinct yanks my hand up to my temples and I dig the heel of my palm into the throbbing epicenter of the ache. With a hiss, I let go, and try to lift my other arm.

"_Fuck_!_"_

Immediately it jerks back and I cradle it against my chest. The ache itself is nearly unbearable, rippling out into my numb hand, resonating in my echo. It's nothing but a rustling of old leaves in my hand – I can't feel a fucking thing there – but from the wrist down it's nothing but a bundle of screaming, thrashing, crying nerves. Worse is the pressure, the bowing of the muscle beneath swollen veins, and it feels like the fist of a giant molding its fingers into a vice grip around my arm.

It's fucking broken, I knew it. I think I knew it before I fell, that I wasn't getting out of that encounter without something to show for it. I run my fingers along the summit of the swelling, rising like a knoll shaped out of skin along the top of my forearm. It's hard, shell-like, a shield guarding the bruised wounded appendage beneath. I've screwed myself good this time – all my men gone, no weapon, Hawkins missing –

My head snaps upward, eyes stinging from the cool morning air as they open up to receive it.

I finally realized. _Hawkins is missing._

From what little intel we gathered from the beginning, before all this shit went down and we had some hope to our names…rumor was that these _things _didn't come out much during the day. They prefer darkness, and we never could figure out why.

Nightcrawlers. It's a better word for them than Grievers.

They're hiding now, dormant and sleepy under the sun. It's safe – as safe as it's going to get out here - to speak aloud.

I clear the old caking blood and mucous out of my throat before cupping my good hand around my mouth. I tilt my head up to the paling sunburned sky. "HAWKINS!" I wait a moment, and repeat when no answer comes. "HAWKINS, WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Nothing. Just the slinking and the groaning of the Maze.

Holding my arm tight against me, I wander down the path of the sector. Broad, dense chinks of light push against the decaying partitions, small here at the tips of my toes, larger where the next corridor begins and the sun floods in. It burns the dull rock till it shines the color of a bright and painful gold. Shadows crowd shyly in the corners, where light brushes along their vague edges with the fluid curiosity of water. I press my palm flat against the cool stone wall, closing my eyes as I listen – listen through the empty silence all around me. Nothing moves under my touch. No echoes trail through here, not even the fluttering wings of birds overhead or whispers of movement in the ever changing corridors.

I open my eyes. I must be completely alone now. Hawkins is probably lying spread-eagled, dead, somewhere in this massive prison. Or he abandoned what he thought to be my corpse to a shallow grave and retreated with the others to the base.

Either way, I'm alone. My only escape is to find the way back to the man-hole we created, but I can't seem to remember what section we were in – the memory is splintered. Broad black fissures run through the pictures in my head, and the cracks look like wide cunning smiles. The monsters I can recall with terrifying exactness. Their cavernous mouth opening up in front of me, and the number of dead on the ground coming apart and disintegrating under the feet of the living.

At the end of the passage, I glance up – noticing something out of the corner of my eye – and find a massive black number painted with meticulous care across the face of the wall. Three.

I struggle through bleary memories, straining heavily against the back of my eyes. Symbols, white faces with black button eye. I can't seem to piece them together, make sense out of them. Monsters with legs like spiders and mouths like grinning demons. A puzzle that's just starting to come together, but I've found so many of the pieces are missing…

Something is telling me to turn back, this is the wrong way, I should be trying to find a two on the wall, and then a one. It's a sort of pressure, like the threads holding me together on the inside are coming apart. I give in, somehow remembering One's old words that have stuck to my very soul with the resistance of scars that will never heal. _Stay sharp. Keep your head. Always trust your gut._

I follow the path, trust every left and right I take, though I probably shouldn't. The creators of this place put every last effort of their twisted genius into making this place into the Hell it is. Every detail in the wall, every turn is full of malice and deceit. I shouldn't trust it with my life, but I have little choice in the matter. I pause, stuff my good hand into every pocket I have – nothing, no handgun, no grenades, just a tiny switchblade I use to pick the shrapnel out of fresh wounds. Useless against a night crawler, but I palm it anyway and memorize its weight against my skin.

At last, I turn the corner to find something different from the unending pillars of stoic gray stone. A towering hedge of ivy, the leaves a deepening jade color. Shadows cast blurry shapes in mimicry of the proud walls that stand against the sun before them. I breathe a sigh of relief. Even if the hedge proves to be nothing more than a change of scenery, if nothing else – they provide shelter from the crawlers.

My foot shifts deep inside the weathered boots, only to halt completely as I spot something moving in the distance. It's no trick of a starved, tired brain either. It's a figure, stooped with exhaustion, but nonetheless unmistakably human. It shuffles along, the body trudging along with great effort as if every footstep were a feat of strength. It crouches before the hedge, examining the area for something it's lost.

"Hey! You there!"

My voice torpedoes down the length of the passage. The figure's head pops up, its features veiled and rough in the distance, but I can still feel its eyes zeroing in on me. It stands, straightening its posture in order to appear bigger than it is. Typical behavior of prey that feels the presence of its predator.

"Hello?"

A male voice. Not Hawkins, but male and so comfortingly human. I could almost cry from the stab of relief that works its way throughout my entire body. I feel like I've just touched a live wire. Jolted awake, every nerve in my body standing to attention.

"Are you…human?"

Curiosity must have gotten the better of him, whoever he is. I can barely move, much less talk, surprised and relieved as I am. I stand there, cradling my arm against my rib cage, blinking back the heat of oncoming tears. I've never cried in front of anyone – and today is not the day to break that record.

He comes up to me at a run, a gawky coltish sort of gait set by the awkward length of his legs. The first thing I notice about him is that he's young, the dark features set in a smooth, pale face like marble. Thick brows frame the sockets of warm, expressive eyes, the color reminiscent of a forest melting in the first light of dawn. It's an open face, the symbol of arms outstretched in welcome, but also questioning. It's in the shape of his brow and the tilt of his head. He's more surprised – if that's even possible – to find me here than I am.

"You are…" He breathes out a shaky, uncertain chuckle. His hand claps over his slackening mouth. "Oh my god, you are…you really are – and a _girl." _He laughs hysterically at the last part, like it's the best joke he's ever heard or _will _ever hear in his whole life. "Oh my god. I – I'm sorry, I just can't believe it - "

I interrupt, waving my hand in front of his face with gentle authority. "Look, I get it. Wow. Another human being. I'm sure it must be the weirdest thing you've seen since you got here, and you've seen some weird shit – but right now I need your help. I'm not asking nice…I'm demanding it."

He finally realizes I'm holding my arm in a funny position, and his forehead knits together in concentration. With just a look, he asks if he can take it, and I nod in reply. He gathers the swollen mass of tissue into his hands with a soft, cautious grip – he doesn't want to make it hurt more than it has to, though we both know it's not possible to move it without causing discomfort. I hiss in pain but bite my tongue, blocking words of protest from leaking through the corners without permission. He's being as gentle as he can, under the circumstances.

I watch him closely as he inspects it. He turns his head around it rather than moving the arm itself, the dark gaze turning cool as it ducks beneath the light. It wanders over every detail. The black and blue color, the redness pooling around the edges of the bruising , and lightly he fingers the hardest patch that stretches painfully against the exterior of skin. His mouth twists and he gives a sympathetic hiss between his teeth.

"Shuck, that arms jacked pretty good." He meets my guarded eyes. "But, really I think it's not too serious. You can move it, that's a good sign. And it looks normal." He gestures his meaning, twisting his own arm to demonstrate. "Y'know, shape-wise."

I snort back a laugh. "What, are you a doctor or somethin'?"

He shrugs a little, but his answer is anything but unsure. "I don't know."

Poor kid, he thinks he's alone – an island in his own head.

"I know about the Glade. This place," I spread my good hand over the nearby silhouettes of the walls. They seem to watch us now, closing in with the menace of unfriendly giants. "The Grievers. Everything."

His eyes go round, and at once they remind me of my mother's pretty ornate china plates, chipped at their rims.

"You – how?" He stammers. "How could you know about us?"

"I'll make you a deal," I tell him. "You get me out of here, fix up my arm, and I'll tell you everything I know. First, take me to your leader. He's the one I need to see."

He bows his head a little, sadness leaking into his expression. "I don't know if…you can. Not anymore."

The tone in his voice, the melancholy in his face. I get it…there is no leader anymore. "You boys have a second in command?"

He nods. "I can take you to him…" He trails off, retreating back into his own black thoughts. "But there's something I gotta do first."

I follow behind as he takes off at a brisk trot back toward the thick ivy hedge, my pace a slow, measured walk. Again, he crouches at the base of the thicket, ducking his head under the leaves as if he's looking for something…

Then he finds it. Drags it out from underneath the shelter of overgrown foliage.

The body of a boy no older than me, whose face has gone still forever…

And a sort of peace has crawled in, filling in the emptiness where a soul had been before.


End file.
